Friends Protect People
by B A Cucumber
Summary: After the fall, John joins Doctors without Borders whilst some Julian Barnes takes up teaching in Tibet. I don't own any of the characters so brilliantly brought into life by A.C. Doyle and the BBC "Sherlock" crew. Apologies.
1. Chapter 1

August 2012

London, England

"**What would you do if you actually got the chance to see him again?"**

_What would he do if he were given the chance to see him again?_

John huffed. Of course, Molly meant well. She always tried to comfort people or help them restore their self-esteem and come to terms with trust issues. But _he_, _John_, did not want to be comforted. Neither did he think of himself as lacking self-esteem. It was more that he felt temporarily out of order. He felt stranded. _Betrayed. No, that wasn't right. Abandoned_. But he did trust. He had always trusted the madman. And now he was gone.

John felt hollow. He gulped and raised his chin, "I'm not sure – I think I'd either punch him in the face. Or – kiss him."

_Good God_. He had really just said that, John realized. _Kiss. Sherlock. Holmes_.

"No, I don't mean that-"

"It's okay, John. If that's how you feel, it's absolutely fine," Molly smiled an odd lop-sided smile, "Did you ever tell him?"

"Tell him _what_?"

"How you feel about him."

"There's nothing to tell. We're – we _were_ – flatmates. That's it."

"_John_," how he hated that hesitant tone of hers.

"No. I'm not, _no_. I'm not gay. Neither was Sherlock, so, _no_. End of story."

"You told me you didn't _know_ what his preferences were," Molly corrected.

John craned his neck and closed his eyes. He _had_ told her that, yes.

"I was wrong, alright? I. _He_. It wasn't that obvious. He just wasn't like that."

"Like what?"

The doctor heaved an exasperated sigh, "He didn't _care_. You see, most people, _guys_, have this thing about sex. He didn't. Wasn't his cup of tea."

"So he _was_ asexual."

"I assume," John shrugged feeling slightly uncomfortable discussing Sherlock's orientation, "Look, there was this one time we shared a bed. _By mistake_. I mean, Sherlock had booked the room. Double room. But he forgot to mention we were not actually a couple."

"Forgot?"

"He didn't think it mattered."

"But it did."

"Not really, no. It was okay._ I've_ shared beds before."

"But not with an attractive bloke like Sherlock," Molly chuckled into her pint.

John pouted. The pathologist was right. But that was not the point. He didn't think of Sherlock that way. He had never drooled over the other man. _Back then_, he had suspected the detective was hitting on him. When they had gone to bed the first night, Sherlock had behaved almost seductively, splaying his long form on the covers and staring at him, his worn-out gown and baggy shirt baring bits of alabaster skin on his neck and shoulder. Yet he had _done_ nothing.

Maybe he had expected _him_ to.

"I'm not gay," John repeated and Molly nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

November 2012

London, England

"**So you're really going?"** Greg Lestrade bellowed and raised his pint, "You're a great man, John."

The doctor laughed and shook his head, "No thanks, you once said that about – someone else, and I don't think I'm quite a match."

"Don't be daft," the Chief Inspector retorted, "You were the _perfect_ match! Besides, I said he _might_ be a good man."

"He was. _To me_, he was."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Shame really no one ever had the chance to tell him that."

"Can we please not talk about Sherlock tonight?"

Greg nodded and put on an artificial smile, inquiring into John's job with _Doctors without Borders_. The ex-army doctor was packed and ready. His flight was scheduled the following day. Mrs Hudson had promised to only rent out to mad middle-aged bachelors with trust issues and self-endangering occupations. He doubted that she'd find someone soon. She had asked John's opinion about what the new tenant should be like, so he had told her to look for the hyperactive kind in a mysterious coat. Preferably dark-haired. _No, she'd definitely not find someone soon_.

"I'll be stationed with a group in Sokoto, in the north-west of Nigeria. We'll be treating epidemics, meningitis, malaria, AIDS. I'll be part of a mobile emergency unit. But I'll also be working at hospitals. Depends on who needs me," John related.

"You'll be facing a hell of a lot of work."

_Yeah_. Which was why John was going. The months after Sherlock's "fall" had been boring. He had avoided the living-room, had used his own room only to sleep in, and had spent long over-hours at the hospital. Mrs Hudson had worried. Even Mycroft had seemed concerned when he told him about his inheritance. Sherlock had left him a considerable sum of money. Funny that the lonely aging doctor should be the world's only consulting detective's sole beneficiary. Of course, there had been rumours then again. Ignited by Mycroft Holmes who had smirked that before there had been Dr. John Watson in his brother's life, the latter would have thought his money of being of no use to anything or anybody. Obviously, he had thought John would make a wiser use of it.

And then _the idea_ had sprung to his mind. At first, it had not been much more than that, a vague idea of do-good'ing in one of the world's most desolate places. After all, he _was_ a doctor. So he had applied with _Médicins Sand Frontières_ and within a couple of weeks, he had a destination. He was looking forward to it. And maybe he could forget.

April 2013

Lhasa, Tibet

"My name is Julian Barnes. Joo-Lee-Ann," the young man said patiently and twenty-five pairs of eyes watched and listened in awe, "I'm from London. A big city in England. A big. City," he spread his arms and moved them as if he were holding a globe.

"England. Do you know England?" The children watched but said nothing.

"It's a cold and rainy place. Cold," he wrapped his arms around himself and pretended to be shivering, "and rainy," he wriggled his fingers above his head to portray a shower. This made the children laugh and Julian smiled, too.

He would later say it had been his girlfriend's idea to go to Tibet and teach, but it had, in fact, been entirely his own. He did not know anything of Tibet, let alone speak the language. But he had wanted a challenge. And a challenge he had got.

Nobody knew him, so he could spend his time reading and walking, or teaching and at the same time learning from the children.

They called him the "Funny Man" because of his shaggy hair and beard. He personally liked his goatee, but it made him look rather young, especially when he was wearing his woollen hat and sweater. The clothes were much too big on the slender body, but they were colourful and happy. He did his best adapting and learning the language, but he still got things wrong quite often.


	3. Chapter 3

July 2013

Lhasa, Tibet

**Julian Barnes** was sitting outside his hut carving a piece of wood. A little boy from the school was keeping him company. They had been sitting there for hours now, neither uttering a single word, when the little boy suddenly began to speak.

He spoke in a strange high-pitched voice, that soothingly and monotonous. Julian did not understand much of the sing-song, but he nodded from time to time. The boy kept talking, every now and then glancing at his older friend as if to make sure the man was listening.

When the boy had finished, Julian sighed, "I know how you feel. You talk to somebody who doesn't understand. But it feels good to talk sometimes. I used to have a friend who was a good listener. I'm not. I'm impatient and nervous. I tend to correct people because I think I know better. _Which I usually do_. So _this_ is new to me. Because I don't _understand_. I'm a stranger here. But it's hard, trust me. _Being alone_."

The boy had watched him from curious eyes. He had listened to the soft, dark voice that sounded so sad and desperate, and he nodded, "You – friend. Here teach. One day. Go. England. You."

"Yes, "Julian said, "One day, I'll have to go back."

"Lucky," the boy smiled what Julian interpreted as encouraging.

"I don't know. I've been gone for a long time now, and things change, you know. _I_ _have changed_. And I'm scared of going back because I don't know what I'll find. I just don't want to be alone anymore."

"You know only when go," the boy said and Julian gaped at him.

Christmas 2014

Goronyo, Nigeria

Dear Molly.

Today I saved a child. Isn't that a great thing to do on Christmas Day?

An àìsàn-kò-gbóògùn-woman was brought in yesterday, suffering from a vicious kind of brain fever. But she had already gone into labour, so we administered antibiotics and just went along. After an arduous night, Amara was born in the early hours of Christmas Day. Her mother, Lisha, died in labour. Àìsàn-kò is Nigerian for AIDS, so we knew what to do to protect the child. She has not been contracted with the disease, so we named her Amara which means "the blessed one". I found the name suitable.

It's still hard to see people die, but on the other hand we also get to see an amazing number of miracles. I might stay another year.

How's life treating you? Did you get round to asking that Terry bloke out?

I'll buy you a pint next time I'm in London. Won't be the same though. I guess life goes on…

Take care of yourself, have a happy Christmas and, seeing as letters take a while, a happy new year, too.

Love,

John


	4. Chapter 4

February 2015

Goronyo, Nigeria

**Molly**.

Won't be staying another year. They think it's better to take some time off. They're probably right. So I'll be back in London in a bit. Could you keep an eye out for a studio, bedsit or 1-bedroom? That'd be grand. I'm bringing you a present. Hope you'll like it.

Take care.

Love, J.

May 2015

London, England

Wind was playing in the birch trees, and where the day's last sunbeams fell, the leaves created a mesmerizing image of lightness, fluttering, shivering, glinting in warm, summerly colours. The trees swayed gently whilst the shadows danced on the white wall of Julian Barnes' study.

The young man had only recently moved into the house his brother had inherited but never put to use. It was a 5-bedroom Georgian mansion overlooking the quiet alleyways of Cavendish Close. Julian had spent the past two years travelling and teaching in the Himalayan. He had enjoyed the experience until he was struck by a severe malady and had to return to England. His brother had immediately settled him into his childhood home where he now occupied mainly his old room and the adjoining study, as well as the spacious kitchen and (pre)sumptuous family-room. He was slowly recovering but still felt the illness in his limbs, robbing him of his usual energy. His head ached, and the fever kept coming back, but the cramps had stopped and his digestion had almost gone back to normal.

Julian leaned back in his old leather chair and tapped the book he was reading with a thin finger. He knew he had to eat to regain weight. But he felt listless and defeated.

_Before_ Tibet, he had had a life he vaguely remembered. So far, he had not contacted anybody in London, and he doubted they would be happy to see him in his present condition. He hated himself these days. He had always been the lanky type, all arms and legs, with a long face dominated by sharp cheekbones. Today, he was terribly skinny, his anaemic features emaciated by the strain which he had been put under.

His brother had got him a job with the BBC, and he was reading children's stories now. His voice was the only thing about him that had hardly changed. It was still deep and gravelly, and charismatic. He had hoped people might recognize his voice and twitter, but that had not happened. Not even the Radio News article introducing him as the new Richard Brook had caused a reaction - and the magazine had used an old photograph!

Julian had to face the truth: he had become invisible.

And he hated it.


	5. Chapter 5

June 2015

London, England

**It was past midnight when John came home.** He was lecturing at Barts now, and last night's evening lecture had gone extraordinarily well. His students had invited him for a drink and they had gone to a nearby pub. They had also asked Molly to join them; after all he had promised her a drink. So they had chatted the night away and John had felt at ease and at home for the first time in a long while.

When he realized how late it was, he groaned and cursed his age, but chuckled it off with a shake of head. He left the lights on in the hall and wriggled out of his jumper. Still in good spirits because of one of the stories his best student had told, he unbuttoned his shirt and was about to take it off when he noticed the sleeping figure on his bed. Frowning, he stopped mid-movement and took a step towards the shape.

In the semi-darkness, he could make out a very spindly body of a man (_sharp hip bones, prominent shoulders, Sherlock_), slightly curled in on himself. A pair of shoes was neatly placed in front of the bed (_feels at home, doesn't he? Sherlock!_), and at its foot rested a folded item that made John's heart leap. It looked very much like a dark coat (_Sherlock-coat, trademark coat, just like that blue scarf of his_). _This was_ _not possible_, John thought (_Sherlock?_), and said in a low voice, "Hello?" No answer.

The doctor opened the door further to allow more light in and stepped closer to the sleeping man. He bore a striking resemblance with the proclaimed dead. The pale face with its high cheekbones rested on a thin forearm, dark curls (_much shorter than they used to be, and a lot curlier_) framing the angelic features. _Sherlock_. _Impossible_.

"Sher-," John inched closer. He had to verify. After all, this might be a trick. An illusion. The protuding bones spoke of weight loss, malnutrition, _so nobody had reminded Sherlock to eat proper meals_, the former flat-mate smiled to himself. The curly hair was damp (_greasy, probably had not showered or washed his hair in a while_). His face wasn't as peaceful at second sight. There were rings around the eyes, speaking of sleep deprivation and lines that read worry (_He's been having a hard time_.), the lips were dry and the soft skin broken (_dead give-away of dehydration_) and there was a feverish glow to the pale skin that raised the doctor's concern. Sherlock wasn't well. He sighed and could not help taking the detective's pulse. He gently placed two fingers on the hot neck and frowned at the sleeping man's heart frequency (_racing_,_ much too elevated for a sleeping man_). When he pulled away he noticed the scars. Sherlock's forearms were covered in them. _Lots of them_, some merely thin white lines, some dark and nasty, some fresh and crusted (_Cutting addiction_, his mind screamed out.) – Sherlock wasn't well _at all._

"John," his name was a faint whisper, so he did not realize that the other one had spoken until he mumbled his name again, rolling over to face the wall.

"Sherlock?" John ventured, but the other man seemed fast asleep, "Oh, what the hell!"

John shook his head in disbelief. _What now_? He should probably wake Sherlock. Shake him and hit him (_only he looked so fragile, so weak_). Shout then. Be angry. He felt furious. And he knew he should have questions (_but they did not matter right now_). He should tell him how lost he had been. How much he suffered (_but Sherlock seemed to have suffered, too_). He felt like crying (_boys don't cry_). And he wanted to hug him. Hold him. Keep him. Forever. Yet, he had to understand.

His mobile phone made the funny sound he had chosen for text alerts, and he opened the message: "Have a look outside, will you". Sherlock would have told his brother to sign his texts. John walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. There was a dark limousine in front of the house, and next to it stood a very erect Mycroft Holmes lifting his mobile. John picked up before it could make a sound, "Mycroft".

"John. Pleasure to see you're still up."

"What do you want?"

"Is _he_ with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you _seen_ him?"

"Seen who?"

John watched the man below impatiently stab the pavement with his umbrella, "My brother."

John hesitated for what he hoped would be taken for a surprised pause, "He's **dead**."

Another pause, "No. He's not. He returned to London a while ago. _Very_ ill. _Alarmingly_ ill."

John thought of the deathly pallor of Sherlock's skin.

"_Where_ is he?" John managed to keep his voice cold.

"He _was_ at my house," Mycroft answered, "but he seems to have - eloped. I thought _you_ might help."

"Why? I mean, why would you think that?"

"Because you're his _friend_. His only friend."

"Right. Which is why he buggered off making everyone believe he's dead. **Great friend**."

"John," Mycroft sounded sad, "he'll explain in due course. Are you sure he's not with you?"

"Quite sure."

"Alright. Well, goodnight then, John. Apologies for keeping you."

This was **_mad_**. _**Barking mad**_! John switched his phone off and walked back to the bed. Still shaking his head about the Holmes boys, the doctor picked up a thick blanket unfolded it. He covered the thin shivering man. Then he got into bed beside Sherlock, lying back to back with the other man. _Now people would definitely talk_, he thought with a smile and fell asleep.

-o-

When he woke, Sherlock was watching him from bloodshot eyes (_drugs, lack of sleep, or maybe he had been crying_). John blinked and realized that his left arm was wrapped around Sherlock's body (_so he _had_ held him_). The younger man did not seem to mind though. In any case, he had moved into the embrace.

"Sorry," John coughed and retracted his arm. Sherlock nodded.

"What happened?" John's frown returned, "What's wrong with you?"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with me," came the well-known reply.

John sighed and sat up, "And what about this?" The doctor grabbed Sherlock's right arm and twisted it making the sick man wince in pain.

"John, you're hurting me."

"_I'm_ hurting _you_?" He squeezed the sore arm a little harder and moved to straddle Sherlock at the same time, "_Me_! Hurting _you_? You're doing this to _yourself_, Sherlock. It's an addiction."

"There's _nothing wrong with me_," Sherlock whimpered, too weak to push John away.

"A cutting addiction! You're an addict. For all I know you might be shooting up again as well!"

"I'm not," there were tears now welling up in the detective's eyes, "_honestly_."

"You are sick. I get it now. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"_No_," sobbing now, "_I_ – I'm ill. Please let go."

Shocked at the breakdown, John obeyed and noticed that one cut had opened under the pressure on the thin arms, "Tell me what happened."

"I missed you. You were right," Sherlock gulped, adding, "You said friends protect people, and that's what I did."


End file.
